


Out of Character

by ItsTheBlob



Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Blood and Violence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:54:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29941317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ItsTheBlob/pseuds/ItsTheBlob
Summary: For a Wigfrid-themed art week I'm running on Tumblr: https://itstheblob.tumblr.com/post/644916997674713088/week-of-wigfridPrompt 3-B: Out of Character. Wigfrid encounters a puppy.
Kudos: 23
Collections: Wigfrid Week 2021





	Out of Character

The ground all about had become slick with blood and she had to step carefully towards the last of the bodies, lying on its side with its mouth gaping- her spear had separated the jaw, leaving the hound appearing to gasp in surprise. 

"Are you about done with your trophy-collecting, Ms. Wigfrid?" Maxwell appeared to be making quite a show of cleaning his sword, perhaps to mask any chagrin he felt at his poor performance in the battle. 

"Aye," she said, as it would be a mere waste of breath to point out that these weren't trophies- they were useful items for the camp, and things she had been sent expressly to collect. If she had desired a trophy, 'twould have been a pelt, and all these sorry creatures had been left in a state that made their pelts not worth collecting.

She cracked open the hound's maw with a twist of the handle of her spear and began popping out each of the large canines, using the blade as a lever. It was a simple thing, and twas odd now for her to recall now the first time she had tried it- the first time she had looked at a beast bleeding on the ground and wondered if the teeth that had torn open her leg may be put to her own uses- how she had destroyed the teeth at first by hitting them with rocks to knock them loose. That seemed like quite a different Wigfrid, a fumbly and silly one. 

She wiped the removed fangs on the hound's fur to clean the worst of the blood, and wrapped up the teeth for a more thorough cleaning later. Were she alone she likely would have finished the job at once, but Maxwell was not the most patient of men. Wigfrid was not the 'grizzled loner' sort of hero, but sometimes she could understand the motivations of those who were… 

"We shall depart presently," she said, "there is no need to whimper so." 

"I'm not whimpering." Maxwell had perfected the art of sounding offended. 

"Art thou not?" Wigfrid fell silent a moment and listened. She watched Maxwell, as well- he made no sound. "The wind, perhaps." 

"Perhaps we'd best not linger." 

The only object left was the nest. She knelt beside it and reached in. A sharp pain in her hand followed, and she withdrew the hand almost before she understood why she had done so. A drop of blood stood out on her finger. "Fie! These bones are sharp." 

"Frightened of a little pain, my dear barbarian?" 

"I am not," she said, "nor am I a fool, to accept pain for no reason." She peered into the hole with the aim of avoiding the offending shard. Two pinpricks of light answered her gaze. 

She had never before seen the young of the hounds. Maxwell claimed they nested deep underground, but he was not to be trusted, and she had for some time now assumed that hounds had no young but sprang from the ground fully formed like creatures of myth. Yet it seemed she was wrong. 

The little creature growled a tiny growl, the tiniest of itty-bitty fierceness, and Wigfrid cried out without meaning to: "A puppy!" 

"A puppy?" She could visualize Maxwell's arched eyebrow from the tone of his voice, but a pox on him. The puppy was tiny, and it was fluffy, and it was- most definitely- an orphan. Wigfrid had thoroughly seen to that. 

It glared balefully at her. So brave, for such a defenseless creature! Even the frail, elderly Maxwell could have caught up the poor thing and dashed its brains out, like the doomed child of Lady Ma- er- the Scottish play. "Shh," said Wigfrid, "I won't harm thee!" 

"I should hope not," said Maxwell. "I haven't done anything to you yet." 

The puppy sent out a miniature growl. Wigfrid was not going to be able to coax it or reason with it, it was a wild animal. She would likely have been able to tempt it with meat, but as this was meant to be a short trip she had no rations with her. In that case… 

She took a few rags from her pack- taken in case Maxwell should require swift bandaging at any point during the battle, but he had allowed his shadow creations to take all of the blows on his behalf- and caught up the little hound in them. It began to cry out its discontent at once. "Hush, hush!" she said, holding it close to her chest- it was putting up quite a fight, but her armor could withstand a few kicks from an animal not much bigger than her fist. "I think thou hast rather come with me than starve here with the corpse of your mother. Poor thing!" 

"I beg your pardon," said Maxwell, "what is that?" 

"Tis a young hound," said Wigfrid. 

"Ah." He looked down his nose at the squalling parcel. "I don't think you'll find that very tasty." 

"I shan't eat it!" 

"Don't tell me you feel bad for it. That seems a tad out of character." 

Out of character? 

She at first had no rejoinder. Would a savage Viking take pity on a small puppy, simply because it was soft and tiny, and because she had just slain its parents? 

Maxwell watched her coldly. He played his own part with exemplary attention to detail- every inch the arrogant villain. What good did it do him? 

The puppy had stopped fighting and was now whimpering for a mother that would not save it. It was so warm and so lightweight. Wigfrid looked down at the matte black fur and said: "I shall train him to be a fierce war hound and we shall battle together! Thou hadst better treat him with respect." This was indeed what she planned to do, but leaving things here did not seem quite right, somehow. She hesitated only a moment before adding: "And in any case I am the sort of fierce hero that protects the weak. I have saved thee a lot of times before, in fact." 

He rolled his eyes. "Whatever you say. Will you and your noisy baggage stand around here another hour contemplating the canine condition or shall we get on with it? I had a potion brewing that is most likely curdled." 

"Aha," she said, "in future perhaps thou wilt not start up things that are likely to curdle when thou knowest thou shalt be out all day. Off with us, then!" 

And they departed.


End file.
